


Public Enough

by Iuris



Category: The Witcher 3, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Blooded Crown, Exhibitionism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-01 22:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10202765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iuris/pseuds/Iuris
Summary: “Emhyr did everything he could to bear that out, including fucking Geralt ruthlessly at least once a day, and a few times extra in places public enough that someone caught them in the act.” ---- Blooded Crown





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Blooded Crown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238637) by [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat). 



“You’ve got to be _kidding me_.”

Emhyr glanced over from behind his desk, an eyebrow raised. “On the contrary,“ He commented. “Nilfgaardian color suits your complexion well.”

“Right, that too,” Geralt shifted his weight to another leg, he was leaning on a bookcase next to the door of the emperor’s study, leg crossed at the ankles, trying his best to look dignified while wearing this ridiculously looking, black-velvet dressing gown which was embroidered with roses made of golden silk. “I meant your earlier proposition.” 

Emhyr paused, put down his pen, let his gaze lingered on Geralt’s for a brief, subtle moment. “I thought you’d be thrilled,“ He said with an air of pretentious thoughtfulness, and pushed back his chair while standing up. “Come, I know just the place.”

The _place_ turned out to be the _throne room_ of the royal palace of Vizima. It was the night of the full moon, bright silver streams of moonlight poured in through the huge pane of windows on the side of the hall. The torches on the wall were unlit, not that they mattered anyway. 

“Seriously?” As they approached the throne, Geralt noticed there were plump cushions placed on the huge seat, and more scattered next to the throne, on a fluffy carpet white as the new snow. A silver tray was also lying on the carpet, filled with fruits and a thin bottle of wine. “Wouldn’t this bring…bad karma or something?” He looked at the throne incredulously.

“We are leaving Vizima by the end of this week, the— _karma_ will be left here,” Emhyr said. He walked over to the throne and sat down among the many cushions, which, under normal circumstance Geralt would have found hilarious. He did not. Because when Emhyr looked up at him, his amber colored eyes glittering under the moonlight, he suddenly felt very, very aroused. 

In the throne room. Great. The hall was massive and thankfully it was completely empty at this time of the night, which was not even that helpful, as in this case, the echo of any sound would be significant. Geralt gritted his teeth. Emhyr was observing him intensively, started sinking further into the softness and heaved an inaudible sigh, and Geralt just knew that he had spread his legs ever so slightly under those formidable layers of his robe.

“ _You_ are loving this, aren’t you,” Geralt managed. 

His cock was already throbbing against the velvet fabric that he tried to keep all the way closed when they walked the corridors of the palace. There were imperial guards everywhere and occasionally guests of the royalty who stayed for the night, he really didn’t feel like to have himself unexpectedly announced out loud. He came to Emhyr’s study barefoot, before realizing the emperor’s plan was to be carried out somewhere else. It would be pretty uncomfortable to walk beside a fully and formally clothed emperor of Nilfgaard while clad only in a fancy dressing gown and be spotted by nosy Nilfgaardian nobles. The thick carpet stretched all over the inner palace floor made the trip bearable, though.

Geralt sighed and closed the distance between them. After a fortnight’s engagement of a variety of recreational activities, he had learnt that Emhyr can be extremely patient if he chose to. The throne room was large and cold, and Emhyr in cushions was the most attractive thing in this hall. Geralt straddled his thighs under those dark amber gaze, and lowered his body into the warmth underneath. 

He moaned when their lengths collided against each other, with only Emhyr’s office robe between them. The soft leather patches over his heated, sensitive skin felt amazing. He rubbed harder and was rewarded with a small reaction from Emhyr: His breath quickened, and his palm run up and down once more under the dressing gown along Geralt’s spine, then rested on his lower back. 

Encouraged, Geralt started to ride him harder like he was urging Roach to hurry up, he flexed his thigh muscles uncontrollably and lifted one leg to kneel on the high, cushioned throne at his side to gain a better angle. He could tell that Emhyr was enjoy this equally as much, so it almost came as a surprise when he was stopped gently with a hand on this thigh.

“No,” Emhyr breathed, softly but firm. Geralt blinked and sluggishly caught what he meant. He was panting and sweating openly now, and there was nothing he’d like to do at this moment other than a sweet release. He hastily fumbled with the belt under the emperor’s robe, he was already leaking and wet when Geralt took him in his hands. He leant forward, shifted his weight onto the bent leg and spread them apart even more, resulting in a position that his other foot could barely touch the floor, and pressed his face down on Emhyr’s shoulder. 

He allow the tip to breach him, and hung there a while, panting frantically. He heard Emhyr breathing hard into his ear as his head turned slightly towards him. He was slick enough thanks to the previous preparation, but still it required him considerable strength to sink down on to it completely. Shit, Emhyr was hang. He finally did it, after writhing and twisting and whining a bit too loud than he’d prefer, Geralt settled fully on his lap with his mouth open, trying his best to hold on to his sanity. He felt stretched to the limit, almost too full to bear. The feeling suddenly brought this fleeting, inappropriate image of himself _being impaled on some stake of Radovid’s_ to his mind. He swore under his breath. 

It took him a longer while to recover, even with the help of Emhyr’s soothing hand circling the place over his tailbone. When Geralt lifted his head at last, he caught sight of Emhyr, basking in the milky mist of moonlight, the lines of his face took this softened, blurry edge while his usually stern, thin lips parted and appeared almost kissable. 

He looked weirdly fucking beautiful.

Emhyr moved again, Geralt gasped.

#

"Your majesty," someone coughed behind him. Geralt tensed immediately and tried to pull himself up from Emhyr's lap at once, or at least to look back. He suddenly felt terribly horrified—that he allowed someone to sneak up from behind. Vesemir would be so disappointed. But Emhyr had his hand firm on Geralt's waist and secured him there. That bastard saw. He'd known they were not alone anymore yet he did not bother to warn Geralt at all, or for that matter, to stop. He _allowed_ it. He had allowed a fucking audience.

"Morvran. What is it?" Emhyr said. His voice did not waver even the slightest as Geralt tightened involuntarily around him. Geralt was suddenly absurdly grateful that he was still wearing that damn gown. If he had come in his armor, well, Morvran would have a much better view by now.

“I am so sorry to disturb you, your majesty, “ Morvran said, he did not sound sorry enough. Neither did Emhyr, as he continued his leisurely rocking movements in his seat. Geralt began to wonder if _he_ was the only one capable of ever having a feeling of remorse. “I only require a minute of your time, and I will be gone in the morning to attend a meeting with Herevard in Ellander.” 

He did only asked one question regarding some military stuff, Geralt had absolutely no fucking idea what he was talking about, nor the reply from Emhyr. The only thing he could do was to hang on and to apply every ounce of his self-control to not make any noise: Emhyr had just found a perfect angle and was moving his hip in a way that he would keep dragging over Geralt’s most sensitive spot inside.

"Have a goodnight, your majesty," Morvran said, still using his _pure-blooded-Nilfgaardian-noble-accent-that-always-gets-on-Geralt’s-nerves_ tone of voice, and he paused meaningfully before he added, “Sir Geralt.”

Geralt groaned.

“You know he is going to tell everyone before the morning,” Geralt said later, after Emhyr eventually flipped him over and fucked him two more times on the throne, and came inside of him both times, “and possibly—no, definitely Ciri as well.” He winced.

“That was the idea,” Emhyr replied, he was lying back on the fluffy carpet, supported by another pile of cushions, and was drinking wine.

“And this was the idea as well?” Geralt did not want to move at all from his position on the throne since Emhyr arranged him there an hour ago. The throne was actually not that bad. 

“The Nilfgaardian royal gown,” Emhyr said lightly as he finished his glass, “helps to establish your position.”

#

"I think you are enjoying this far too much, Duny." Geralt told him after they finally made back to the royal chambers. Emhyr glared. 

#

The next morning, Geralt woke up and found Emhyr had already left. He was, however, still wearing that Nilfgaardian royal gown. It was badly crumpled by now, and smelled of sex. The servants had already drawn a bath for him in the living room. He ignored the steaming hot tub, and stalked out of the chamber and made his way down the corridors heading straight to the conference room that he knew Emhyr would be in, having his daily routine meeting with his generals.

The guards at the door let him through without batting an eye. So were most of the generals in the room, until a younger looking one that was giving a proud demonstration over the sandbox, who, upon Geralt’s entering, suddenly stuttered so bad that he dropped the stick he was holding which smashed into a row of tiny siege machines. Emhyr looked up and froze for half a second. Geralt hopped on a tall table across the sandbox where Emhyr stood and smiled down at him smugly. 

The meeting ended in a whirl in five minutes. 

“I am already starting to regret this question now,” Emhyr said finally, after the last general hurriedly retreated and closed the door behind him, he stared directly into Geralt with a small twitch at the corner of his mouth that could resemble either a smile or an annoyance, took a glimpse at his ruined gown and carelessly exposed legs, and he continued sounding just a little bit hoarse than usual, which including the whole time last night when they were on that throne. “Is _that_ still mine?” 

Geralt sighed happily. 

 

end

**Author's Note:**

> astolat is so far the best thing that happened to the Witcher fandom :)  
> My first ever fic in English, (not really) sorry it turned out to be porn.  
> Many, many thanks to luciaexe for beta.


End file.
